Alec

by William di Canzio

  “Yes sir, I just told him,” said Simcox.

  “Perhaps in the pantry, sir,” the parlormaid said, “where you can be private. Milly, set a chair for the vicar in there.”

  When they were alone, Borenius began, “I’d like to get things in order for you before you set sail—churchwise, I mean, Mr. Scudder, as pertains to your Christian life.”

  “Most thoughtful of you, sir,” Alec said.

  “Not at all. I was certain you’d find it useful to have certain documents available in your new home, so last week I wrote to your home parish in Osmington. They’ve sent a record of your baptism. But they find none of your confirmation. Perhaps if we could supply them the date or even the year, that would help them.”

  “Yes, well, sir, I don’t recolleck as I’ve been confirmed.”

  “Ah…” The vicar tried not to frown.

  “The parents did not insist,” Alec felt obliged to explain. “Mum leaned a bit toward the Unitarians.”

  “And you?”

  “Unitarian? No sir, as those things go, I rather enjoy the traditional music. I was a choirboy till the voice changed.”

  “I see. Of course, I noticed you didn’t communicate last Eastertide, but I assumed that was a matter of choice—not an unusual choice, I regret, among young men…”

  “Like the squire hisself, sir,” Alec said quickly, in defense against the clerical scowl, then added, “who don’t even go to church—”

  “If one chooses not to communicate, that’s a matter of conscience, as it is for Squire Durham, whose opinions are informed. But to be held back by a canonical impediment—well, I take that as the Church’s neglect. I do wish I’d known. How long exactly till you leave?”

  “Week from Saturday, sir.”

  “So soon? I doubt there’s time for the necessary instruction; still, I’ll ask the bishop. You’re approaching an age when it’s best to be settled, with a helpmate, to start a family. Confirmation readies young people for all the Church’s benefits as adults. In most dioceses they insist before marriage—though I’m uncertain of customs in the Argentine…”

  This conference, endured as a nuisance at first, was starting to anger Alec. Writing to his village church, that was cheeky … Why should any man believe he had the right to hound another about religion? Servitude, there was the reason. In the eyes of the Durhams—and Borenius too—the lower classes (embodied in their servants) were children, prone to misbehavior and not to be trusted with their own lives. Alec thought he should set the vicar straight and tell him he attended St. Simon’s on Sunday mornings not for his own sake or his employers’ demands, but because Mr. Ayers, whom he liked, had said it would please him. He found it easier to accommodate the honest old fellow than to let him down. As for confirmation—that was something else, a matter of will, of active consent on his part as an adult. Holy Mother Church was free enough with her abominating and execrating the likes of Alec. Confirmed in such beliefs? The rabid old sow could fuck herself first.

  “Sir,” Alec said, “I’m to unpack the cricket things and clean them for tomorrow’s match, if you might excuse me just now.”

  “Yes, go; I’ll see what can be done and we’ll talk again soon.”

  Alec left quickly. The evening had rattled him. First, meeting Hall in the garden, where the man’s gentleness had undone his resolve. Then, inviting him to swim and setting himself up for rejection. And now Borenius, trying to snag him just before he was about to break free …

  Alec was hurrying through the front shrubbery when he walked smack into someone and caught hold of his elbows for balance: it was Hall. Alec was startled not just by the run-in, but also by Hall’s appearance. Golden pollen from the evening primroses clung to his black hair, adorning him eerily, beautifully, like some woodland god. Their eyes locked; Hall’s lips parted in surprise. Alec wanted to kiss him, fiercely. Instead he rushed out through the gate without a word.

  In his confusion, Alec had forgotten his rifle in the kitchen, so he hurried all the way around the house and took it from just inside the door. Alone in the herb garden, he leaned against the wall to steady himself. As soon as he did so, he saw two men walking toward him: Hall again, now with Borenius. Dark as it was, Alec could tell they recognized him. “Good night, sir,” Alec muttered, trying to include them both as they passed.

  Feeling pursued by those he most wanted to avoid, he went back around front to the shrubbery, where he hoped he might be alone. But there was Hall, having seen the vicar off, dawdling again, his nose again in the primroses. Once more Alec said, “Good night, sir.”

  “Good night, Scudder,” he said, and then: “They tell me you’re emigrating.”

  His interest surprised Alec. “That’s my idea, sir.”

  “Well, good luck to you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He expected Hall to go now, but the man lingered in silence, as if waiting for their talk to continue, so Alec ventured to say, “It seems rather strange.”

  “Canada or Australia, I suppose.”

  “No sir, the Argentine.”

  “Ah, ah, fine country.”

  “Have you visited it yourself, sir?”

  “Rather not, England for me,” said Hall. They’d taken a few steps side by side and bumped in the dark. Alec watched Hall go on back into the house.

  England for me. True enough: England was for Hall and his like, no one else, only them. Alec knew he ought to go to his room and forget about him. He ought to get into bed and be still; think about cricket, or nothing; or read from the anthology on his bedside table: a dose of Tennyson would put him to sleep. In spite of himself, rifle in hand, he walked toward the Russet Room.

  The window was dark, like those of the rest of the house at this hour, but tonight a ladder leaned against the wall, its top resting on the stone sill. The roofers must have left it; they were repairing the leaky bay of the drawing room below. But what if Hall had placed it there himself? Alec was certain he’d done no such thing; nonetheless he put a foot on the ladder’s first rung, testing his courage as much as its strength. He pulled back. Maybe Durham was up there with Hall. His heart sank; he started to walk away. Just then, the curtains upstairs were pulled open. At the window was Hall, who was looking out over the park, where the just-risen moon turned the mist in the grass all smoky white. Hall was shivering—the night had grown chilly. He gripped the top of the ladder with both hands and shook it. Was he testing it? Did he want to descend, to escape whatever was troubling him? As he had the night before, again he called out crazily to the sky, “Come!” Then he let go of the ladder and was gone again from sight. Despite the cold, he left the window and curtains wide open.

  At once Alec knew what he must do. He climbed the ladder quietly, then through the window and into the room. Hall was in bed, watching in silence. Alec leaned his gun carefully against the windowsill.

  He went to Hall, knelt beside him, and whispered, “Sir, was you calling out for me?”

  Hall said nothing, but his gaze was gentle, even grateful.

  “I know, I know…,” Alec said and touched him.

  6

  “Had I best be going now, sir?” Alec asked. It was about two o’clock.

  As if he had not heard the question, Hall said, “We mustn’t fall asleep, though, awkward if anyone came in.” He laughed a pleasant blurred laugh. “You mustn’t call me sir,” and the laugh sounded again, brushing aside such problems as class with charm and insight. “May I ask your name?” he said awkwardly.

  But Hall’s well-intended words served to remind Alec of the problem rather than dispel it. He answered, “I’m Scudder.”

  “I know you’re Scudder. I meant your other name.”

  “Only Alec just.”

  “Jolly name to have.”

  “It’s only my name.”

  “I’m called Maurice.”

  They talked quietly, intimately—about when they first saw each other, about Alec’s kissing the girls (“those people,” Maurice called them�
�jealously, to Alec’s delight), about his watching two nights at the Russet Room window.

  “Do you mean you were out in all that infernal rain?”

  “Yes … watching … Oh, that’s nothing, you’ve got to watch, haven’t you … See, I’ve not much longer in this country, that’s how I kep’ putting it.”

  “How beastly I was to you this morning!”

  “Oh, that’s nothing—excuse the question, but is that door locked?”

  “I’ll lock it.”

  Hall locked the door; when he returned, he stood at the foot of the bed, naked, aroused, unsure. He looked at Alec shyly and in silence, seeming not only to offer himself, but to seek permission, even approval. The sheet was tangled across Alec’s middle; he pulled it away. Maurice smiled at the welcome, lay beside him, warmed him with his embrace, and nestled his face against Alec’s neck, his breath like a wordless whisper. He touched the head of Alec’s cock and showed him the droplet on his fingertip. He wiped it on his own cheek. Alec found Maurice’s lips with his own and parted them gently, the way Van had taught him, with the edge of his tongue.

  Later, spent again, they slept. At first they rolled apart, as if their newfound intimacy harassed them, but toward morning a movement began, and they woke deep in each other’s arms. Off in the distance, the bell of St. Simon’s struck. Maurice’s head lay heavily on Alec’s chest. Alec remained still, as much to cherish his own contentment as to protect his lover’s repose. When he could wait no longer, he caressed Maurice’s hair and said, “Sir, the church has gone four, you’ll have to release me.”

  “Maurice, I’m Maurice.”

  “But the church has—”

  “Damn the church,” Maurice said, half-asleep, kissing his nipple. Alec writhed with the pleasure.

  “I’ve the cricket pitch to help roll for the match…” Still, Alec did not move, except to fondle Maurice’s hair. He was very happy that Maurice wanted to keep him there. More to himself than to Maurice he said, “I have the young birds too—the boat’s done…” and then went mindlessly on about Archie London diving into the water lilies. As he spoke, he slipped out of bed.

  “Don’t, why did you?”

  “There’s the cricket—”

  “No, there’s not the cricket—you’re going abroad.”

  The tone was petulant, but his face was sincerely pained. The words ambushed Alec. In his daydreams about this night, he had not pictured the sadness of parting, much less that the gentleman might regret his leaving England. Gathering his clothes, he said, “Well, we’ll find another opportunity before I do.”

  “If you stop,” Maurice entreated, “I’ll tell you my dream…”

  While Alec stepped into his trousers, Maurice told him his dream about his eccentric late grandfather, who claimed to believe that God dwelled invisibly within the sun, as the human soul did within the body. “I wonder what you’d have made of him…”

  The closeness implied in those words, the social parity—that Alec should have met Maurice’s grandfather and been asked an opinion—disarmed him further. Harried, confused, he said, “I dreamt the Reverend Borenius was trying to drown me, and now I really must go, I can’t talk about dreams, don’t you see, or I’ll catch it from Mr. Ayers.”

  “Did you ever dream you had a friend, Alec? Nothing else but just ‘my friend,’ he trying to help you and you, him. A friend,” he repeated, sentimental suddenly. “Someone to last your whole life and you, his. I suppose such a thing can’t really happen outside sleep.”

  The words, giving voice to Alec’s own feelings, stopped him still. He ached to lie with Maurice for another hour. But then it would be morning and impossible for him to leave unnoticed. They’d be found out; there’d be trouble. For both their sakes he stepped quietly away from the bed. When he reached the window, Maurice called: “Scudder…”

  Alec stopped and turned to him.

  “Alec, you’re a dear fellow and we’ve been very happy.”

  “You get some sleep, there’s no hurry in your case,” Alec said and climbed down the ladder. Dawn was breaking. He went out through the gate dividing the garden from the park. It was so quiet that he was sure Maurice could hear the clink of the latch upstairs.

  Back in his room, Alec lay down on the bed where he realized he’d not slept for three nights. His flesh glowed—satisfied, pleasantly sore. The two of them were little experienced—Maurice, to Alec’s surprise, even less so than himself. At moments they were clumsy or rough: they bruised each other with their passion. No matter, even the awkwardness made him happy. In his own eyes he had acted with courage, maybe for the first time since becoming a servant. He was the one who’d pursued, kept watch, climbed the ladder, risked getting caught, or worse—rejected, punished, disgraced. He was the hero of their night together. And he was very happy with Maurice, with the beauty his face revealed when close to his own, with his strength, his ardor, his wish to keep Alec in his arms, to please him: You mustn’t call me sir … I’m called Maurice.

  You’re going abroad … Alec now asked himself why. Surely not for “getting ahead,” like Fred. Wasn’t it rather for the kind of freedom he’d just tasted? To be one with a man of his choosing, who, like him, wanted a friend, Nothing else but just “my friend,” he trying to help you and you, him. A friend, someone to last your whole life and you, his …

  In the distance, St. Simon’s bell struck five. The hatchlings were squawking in their coop. He got up to tend them. Later, after the birds were fed, and the dogs, and the kennels swept and the spaniels brushed, after he’d helped the gardeners smooth the cricket pitch, when it was time for him to get ready to play, there was something nuptial about Alec’s happiness. He was going to see Maurice; they would meet in the daylight, in the eyes of the park and the village; they would play together on the same team, these two who had spent the night breaking the law by loving each other. Did you ever dream you had a friend, Alec?

  Morgan had made him a gentlemanly gift for his trip: a box of sandalwood soaps from Fortnum & Mason. He’d stored them away, but now he unpacked a cake and, rather than wake up the household by filling the bathtub, went to the boathouse to bathe. When he took off his shirt, he still could smell Maurice. He inhaled deeply, happily. And he smiled when he saw their spunk, dried on his belly and legs, on his chest and shoulders, plenty of it, all mixed together. He hooted and jumped into the pond where the stream fed it fresh, scrubbed himself from head to toe, then again, imagining what wicked fun they’d have if Maurice was here with him.

  Walking back to the keeper’s cottage, he went out of his way to pass by the Russet Room window. The ladder was still there. The workmen, like Alec, would be playing cricket today. If only they’d leave it! Tonight he’d climb that ladder with no hesitation. He and Maurice would wear themselves out with love, and sleep again in each other’s arms, and wake with their lips not inches apart.

  In his room, he dressed in the flannels. The Durhams had splurged on correct white clothes for Penge Park. This was Alec’s first year in the match: the outfit was new, the trousers made to order, cream-colored, snug in the waist, roomy in the seat and thighs. When he’d showed them off to Mill and Milly, they squealed and pinched his bum. He hoped Maurice would like them as much.

  The park team was gathered at the field with Mr. Ayers, who always kept score, about a dozen yards from the shed where the dowager and young Mrs. Durham sat with their guests. Meantime, Simcox, on the servants’ behalf, had gone to the Russet Room to ask Mr. Hall to captain in the absence of the squire, who was campaigning. They were surprised to hear that he had declined and requested that Alec should captain.

  “Mr. Hall claims he’s no cricketer—” said Simcox to Alec, “a bit of well-bred modesty I’m sure—and asked me who’s our best bat. I told him we have no one better than the under-gamekeeper. So he said, ‘Make the under-gamekeeper captain.’ I ventured to suggest that things always go better under a gentleman, but he’d have none of that and said you should put him in deep
field. Also he won’t bat first, he’d rather eighth. Start without him, he said, as he won’t come down till it’s time. Frankly, he looked rather ill to me.”

  Alec took Simcox aside. “Ill, is he, Mr. Hall?”

  “Lovesick, that’s what they’re saying.”

  Alec went suddenly queasy and hot.

  “Now what’s wrong with you?” Simcox said. “You’ve just turned all peaked yourself.”

  “No, it’s only too bad for the team.”

  “Didn’t I suspect something when I woke him this morning? He’s usually quite chatty when I bring him his tea, but today he hid under the covers and had not a word for me. And the bedclothes—a shipwreck! Like he’d been thrashing around all night long. It’s some girl in London, they say; she must be one fussy brat, stringing him along, a fine catch like him.” Then, lowering his voice, he said, “Unless maybe she heard rumors of him and the squire…”

  Alec wanted to go to Maurice, to know the truth, to hold him, to be held and reassured. Instead he did as instructed: he captained. The park won the toss. Maurice came down from the house fifteen minutes later. He sat apart from the rest of his team (all of them servants) in the shed at the feet of the ladies and their guests, who often yawned. Alec, though busy blocking the vicar’s lobs, could see that Maurice was disturbed. Sheltered there among his own class, did he regret last night?

  But when Maurice joined him to play, his fear was calmed. It was a new over; Alec received the first ball. Abandoning caution, he swiped it into the ferns. He met Maurice’s eyes and smiled. He was untrained, but had the cricketing build, and the game took on some semblance of competition. Maurice played up too. Alec watched him running, reaching, stretching; the sport engaged him fully, mind and body. They were dressed alike—in their whites, as teammates, equals! A win would belong to them both; they were against the whole world—not only Mr. Borenius and the field but the audience in the shed and all England were closing around the wickets. They played for the sake of each other—if one fell, the other would follow. They intended no harm to the world, but if it attacked they must respond, they must stand wary with full strength. And as the game proceeded it connected with their night.